


Ten More Minutes

by ponticle



Series: Black Emporium 2017 [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Budding Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Through the Years, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-28 12:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12606556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Alistair arrives at the Chantry to begin his Templar training. His roommate is skeptical.For Aurlana's prompt of Alistair and Cullen through the years.





	Ten More Minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aurlana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/gifts).



 

* * *

**Year One**

Cullen blinks into the sun—it’s bright, but freezing, at this time of year. He’s trying to pretend he’s warm enough, but it isn’t working. His fingertips are blue. He picks up his sword and swings it into the practice dummy again. The colder he gets, the more he starts to shake. He’s striking it erratically now; deep cuts start to show up at the level of his shins and above his eye line. It’s sloppy and _stupid_. He drops the sword—its tip hits the dirt with a ping.

He’s about to pack it in when someone speaks from behind him. It’s a nice voice—one he doesn’t know.

“Hey… are you Cullen?”

He turns. “Yeah… who are _you_?”

The boy shrugs and blushes. “Alistair… I’m new…”

 _Clearly_.

“The sisters said to come find you… I’m your new roommate,” says Alistair.

Cullen looks at him appraisingly—ruddy complexion, russet hair, vacant expression. Despite his nice voice, he’s a disaster. _Great._

“Do you need _help_ with something?” asks Cullen.

Alistair looks vaguely alarmed at the question. “Can you show me where my—our—room is?” His voice cracks… _how ridiculous_.

Cullen snorts. “At the top of the stairs. Second door on the left.”

Alistair shifts his weight. The tip of one boot scrapes across the ground.

“And?” asks Cullen, raising an eyebrow. His knees are starting to shake against each other, and he’d blame it on the cold, but he has a feeling it’s something _else._ Frustratedly, he blurts, “Come on, let’s go…”

“Just… um…” Alistair looks both ways over Cullen’s shoulders and leans in to whisper. “Ten more minutes? There’s something you need to know…”

Cullen nods, but he doesn’t know _why_ even as it’s happening.

“My father _is_ King Maric… but… I’ve never met him,” blurts Alistair.

Cullen feels his face change. His eyes narrow and his brow furrows. Certainly, Maric isn’t the first king to have bastards—to royalty, illegitimate heirs are probably as common as dirty socks for the rest of the populace… but… still. It’s odd to be told such a thing up front. He watches Alistair shift uncomfortably; his ears are turning pink.

“And… I don’t want anyone else to know… but… we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, I’d imagine… and rumors… they’re quick.” Alistair shrugs. It sounds like he’s speaking from experience.

Cullen smiles suddenly. “If you think that means I’ll clean up after you, you’re about to be sorely disappointed.”

Alistair blinks and frowns. Cullen considers letting him sweat it out—just to see what happens—but decides to be merciful.

“Come on, Al… let me show you our room.”

Alistair still looks nervous.

“Don’t worry…” Cullen rolls his eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

 

* * *

  **Year Three**

“Al, give it a rest!” shouts Cullen. A clang in his periphery tells him Alistair is trying to clean his armor or sharpen his sword indoors—again.

“Sorry…” mumbles Alistair.

In the quiet that follows, Cullen turns back onto his side and closes his eyes. At the exact second he starts to drift, another metallic noise jolts him awake.

“That’s _it_!” he yells, throwing the covers back. He sits up in a fit and is about to give Alistair a piece of his mind when he _sees_ what he’s doing. He’s _packing_. “Hey… what are you doing?”

“What I should have done _ages_ ago…” he snaps, throwing another piece of mail into his pack. “Getting the hell out of here…”

Cullen stands and crosses the room. It’s cold—nearly midwinter again—but he doesn’t move to pick up his shirt. He just wraps his arms around himself and shivers. He feels like something _bad_ will happen if he looks away from Alistair for even a second, although he isn’t sure _what_.

“It’s just… ridiculous,” mutters Alistair.

“What is?”

“This…” Alistair looks up. “I’m not _meant_ for this, Cullen… everyone knows it… I’m the worst at everything.”

“That isn’t true,” says Cullen, shaking his head. It’s a lie, of course, Alistair _is_ the worst… but… he’s also the most sincere. “Alistair, you’ll get better,” he says lamely. “I’ll help you.” Upon those words, he reaches out, grips Alistair’s shoulder and squeezes it.

“You… you will?” asks Alistair. His eyes trail across Cullen’s hand, up his arm, and over his shoulder to his face. “Are you sure you want to be seen with the worst Templar of them all?”

Cullen laughs. “Yeah… as long as you know I won’t go easy on you…” He lets go of Alistair’s shoulder, balling his hand into a loose fist and punching it forward. Alistair snorts and dodges the blow.

When the laughter dies down, Cullen finds himself smiling. Alistair’s face wears the same lopsided expression it always does when he’s unabashedly happy. Cullen wonders transiently if he has ever before been the _cause_ of such an expression.

_Stop it._

Cullen straightens and rubs the back of his neck with a palm. Then he looks at the window. “First rule. Close the damn windows, Al… it’s freezing.” He crosses the room in two quick steps; the frame closes with a whine and a bang. “Second rule: get some sleep. We start tomorrow.”

“Ten more minutes and I’ll go to bed,” says Alistair. He pulls a book out of his haphazardly packed sack and flops into his bed, smiling.

“Okay, Al… Ten more minutes.”

 

 

* * *

 

**Year Five**

 

Cullen weaves right and dodges left, but only narrowly dodges the blow. Alistair might actually beat him this time. He can’t let that happen. He takes two steps to the left and raises his sword in exactly the right way to reflect a beam of sunlight—directly into Alistair’s eyes.

“Hey!” shouts Alistair. He blinks and swings wildly, knocking himself off balance and nearly colliding with a pile of sacks. “You cheated!”

Cullen laughs. “I can’t help it if the sun is in your eyes, Al…” He sighs and looks at the horizon. It’s almost time for midday classes. “Come on. We better go.”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “Ten more minutes. I need a do-over.”

“We’re going to be late.”

“Oh, Cullen… you’re such a wet blanket.” Alistair jabs Cullen in the ribs with his elbow. “One sip of water. Ten minutes. We’re doing this.”

The sun is strong at this time of year—sweat is rolling off his chest in sheets, but he can’t be bothered. He’s too concerned with the _look_ Alistair gives him as he drinks directly from a spigot in the middle of the training yard. It’s something kind and boyish, but tinged with the threat of adulthood. He’s been wearing that look a lot lately. He wears it in the library when he tries to convince Cullen to read forbidden (and often racy) books. He wears it in the Chantry when Cullen is _trying_ to pray. And he especially wears it whenever they’re alone. Cullen just doesn’t know what it means. In fact, he’s trying _not_ to know.

“ _What_?” asks Alistair. He’s suddenly right in front of Cullen again.

“Nothing,” Cullen barks. He picks up his sword and stands at the ready. “Come on. Again.”

 

* * *

**Year Seven**

           

“No, don’t go yet,” pleads Alistair. He’s shivering and snotty. His fever broke this afternoon, but he’s still a mess.

Cullen rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stand from the edge of Alistair’s bed. “What do you need now?”

“Can you read to me?” asks Alistair.

“Read what?”

Alistair blinks a few times. His eyes dart around the room. “Anything. I just…” he coughs; it’s deep and wet-sounding. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Cullen tries to stand again. “I can get an Initiate to read to you…”

Alistair reaches his hand out and grabs Cullen’s forearm. It’s a surprisingly strong grip, considering how sick he’s been.

“No, Cullen,” he rasps. “I want _you_ to stay with me. Please. Just ten just more minutes.”

Cullen laughs and grabs the closest book he can see. It’s fiction; nothing he would read on purpose, but something Alistair relishes. He’s often suggested that if Alistair spent more time on his studies and less on fantasies like this one, he would be at the top of their class… but… oh well. Alistair is sick. This is not the time. He softens back toward the bed and perches himself in the negative space of Alistair’s body, close enough to touch, but careful enough _not_ to.

“Which one is that?” asks Alistair. He squints at the book.

“You’ll see,” says Cullen. He opens to the first page and reads aloud, “There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrub… and he almost deserved it.” Cullen makes a face. “Honestly, Al, I don’t know how you can read garbage like this… what _is_ this anyway?”

Alistair laughs. His face cracks into that lopsided smile again. Cullen sees it all the time now—it seems to only be _for him_. Troublingly, he’s starting to chase it.

Upping the ante, Cullen rummages through the pages to somewhere in the middle. “I mean… a mouse _talks_ in this? He’s as big as a dwarf? Al…”

Alistair shifts in the bed to throw his forearm across his eyes in faux disgust. In so doing, he closes the gap between them. For reasons unknown, Cullen doesn’t shift away.

“You don’t have to read that one,” says Alistair. He blinks up at Cullen from under his arm—just one eye. “Pick another one.”

But Cullen knows this is Alistair’s favorite, so he opens it to the first page and starts again.

 

 

* * *

 

**Year Nine**

 

“Cullen? Did you _hear_ me?” asks Alistair. His eyes dart between Cullen’s pupils unblinkingly while he waits, but Cullen doesn’t know what to say now any better than he did ten minutes ago.

“I...I _heard_ you,” Cullen manages. He tries to swallow, but his throat is a desert. It clicks and grinds audibly. “I just...I don’t…” Rejection coils inside him and he snaps. “I thought you were _committed_ to the order.”

Alistair blinks. “Are you serious?”

Cullen feels his expression harden. “Of course I am, Al… _I’m_ the one who takes this seriously…”

Alistair pushes a hand through his hair and groans. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you earlier… I _knew_ you’d act like this.”

“Earlier?” repeats Cullen. “How long have you known about this?”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point. This is _huge_ for me, Cullen! I’m going to get _out_ of here… I’m going to be a Grey Warden… Cullen!” His face falls. “I thought you’d be _happy_ for me.”

They stare at each other.

“I—I want to be…” says Cullen finally. “I just… you’re _leaving_ us. Deserting your brothers and sisters before we’ve even really begun!” A small voice in his head adds, ‘ _deserting **me** ’_.

“Deserting?” Alistair turns toward his things, which are already packed. The repetition strikes Cullen all at once… packing… leaving. There are no words to convince him to stay this time… He has to blink and breathe just to stay upright. His mind whirls and spins. The apology is on his lips, but then Alistair is talking again:

“Cullen, I tried to be reasonable. I tried to spare your feelings… I just—”

“Feelings?” scoffs Cullen. “What feelings?”

Alistair shakes his head. “Don’t do this, Cullen. Not now… not when we’re here… at… at the end…”

Cullen grabs Alistair’s arm and spins him so they’re face to face, anger making him rash, clouding his judgment. “ _What_ feelings? Whatever you think this is, I can assure you, it _isn’t_. You’ve been my _charity_ case for the last nine years—nothing else.”

Alistair winces, but Cullen doesn’t stop.

“You’re hopeless, Alistair. I felt _bad_ for you—that’s all.”

Alistair looks stunned. His mouth opens and closes a few times while Cullen screams at himself inside his head: _No. Don’t do this!_

“Well… I guess that’s it then,” says Alistair. “I’m glad I know where I stand…” He shoulders his bag and strides toward the door. “No sense in dragging this out, I suppose.”

“None at all,” echoes Cullen.

They nod to each other at the door. He stands on the spot, not moving, not blinking, barely breathing until Alistair’s footsteps are just a memory. And only then, when he realizes he’s squandered the last moments they had left, he whispers, “ _Please_. Ten more minutes.”

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> AFTERCARE: Imagine they meet up again someday and Cullen has learned from his mistakes. They're finally ready to be together. The rest is history. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ten More Minutes Continued...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13065513) by [Aurlana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/pseuds/Aurlana)




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